Jailbird
by stress
Summary: Spot Conlon was probably one of the only boys who didn't mind going to jail after the rally at Irving Hall.


******Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

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**Jailbird**

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One of the first things Spot learned from being on strike was that being on strike was very bad for business.

Ever since Jack and his boys proved themselves in Spot's eyes, Spot went ahead and led his boys right into this newsies strike. Because it wasn't fair, was it, to charge an extra ten cents per hundred when the boys couldn't even afford paying two for a penny?

At least, that's what Spot was thinking when they first went on strike. Now, a couple of days later and his pockets a whole lot lighter, he was beginning to think things through again. Maybe it hadn't been such a bright idea. He'd gone through all the pennies he had, and quite a few he bummed off his boys, and he was looking forward to carrying the banner on the unfamiliar Manhattan streets until he could find a way to make some money. Because he'd been staying in Manhattan, instead of going back to Brooklyn every night, he didn't have any haunts to hide out in or old friends who owed him any favors; here, he was just another newsie looking for a place to stay.

He'd been doing okay the first few days, joining in on the poker games in the bunkroom and the game of dice Skittery and Race ran out back. Spot wasn't so good with the dice, but he had a poker face to die for, and, besides, when Racetrack Higgins was betting against you, you almost always won. But even Race's luck had to turn, and Spot found himself without a penny to his name and Pulitzer not listening to any of the newsies demands.

Then came Jack's grand idea, a newsies rally down at Irving Hall. Cowboy thought that would get their attention, especially when they'd get an honest-to-goodness reporter to write it up and put it in the papers. It seemed like a good idea, and Spot was willing to admit Jack might've had more brains than he gave him credit for, but then cops burst in and the rally was over and Spot was torn between sticking around to fight or getting the hell out of Irving Hall before he got busted too.

He could've gotten away. When the Walking Mouth stood up and tipped the theatre hall off to the copper's being there, Spot was sitting at a table, close enough to the back door to get the hell out of there. His Brooklyn boys knew how to take care of themselves—he had no doubt they were already gone. And, as a good leader, he should've been high-tailing it after them.

But then he watched as the Manhattan boys tried to protect Jack instead of saving their own skin. Even Davey was trying to stand between Jack Kelly and the warden of the Refuge, and Spot never would've thought the Mouth would've had it in him. And if Davey could stick around and try to save the day, why shouldn't Spot? He was a fighter, and even if he'd forgotten to bring his cane or his slingshot with him, his two fists were more than weapon enough.

Besides, what was waiting for him outside of Irving Hall? A hard night out on the streets because he couldn't pay lodging fare or the long trek back to Brooklyn where he'd have to scrabble to find a place to lay his head down for free? Say he helped out and made it out of there with Jack, someone was bound to pay his way at the Newsboys' Lodging House on Duane Street.

What was the worst that could happen? He got picked up by the cops and thrown in the House of Refuge for a couple of days. At least there was a bed there and free food. Hell, when it got done to it, going to jail didn't sound half bad.

But Spot never had the chance to jump in and maybe give Davey a push when he sat on Medda's girly swing and swung to kick two coppers in the chest—though he had to give him points for style—or even knock Jack out of the way when he got grabbed. Before he could've made a move one way or another, out with Brooklyn or in with Manhattan, a big, burly bull reached out and clamped his big, meaty hand down on Spot's shoulder.

He tensed under the weight but refused to buckle and in a blink of an eye, Spot had wormed his way out from under the copper's hand and was facing the man with a cold look in his piercing blue eyes.

"C'mon, Tiny," goaded the cop, nightstick in hand, "whatcha gonna do?"

And Spot just shrugged, shook his head once, then reared back and let loose with a punch straight to the copper's jaw. He could've sworn he heard teeth rattle before he was knocked down and thrown into the paddy wagon with the rest of the other boys.

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Jail food was better than he expected. Riding in the paddy wagon over to the Refuge to wait to see the judge, then to the courthouse to actually meet the bastard in person meant he didn't have to walk, so that saved some holes in his shoes. He was roped up with the Manhattan boys, and while they weren't from Brooklyn, they weren't half bad. Really, he couldn't complain.

Spot was still riding high when the cops brought them in to face the crooked judge, Move-Along Monahan. His belly was fuller than it had been in days and the pillows on the cots were softer than the ones over in that joint on Duane Street. And, sure, he'd lost his favorite grey cap somewhere in the scuffle, but he'd send one of his boys down to Medda's place to find it as soon as he could.

All in all, he was in a good mood, and when Spot Conlon was in a good mood, he could be pretty reckless. Underneath the cold façade he wore as the Brooklyn leader, he was a smartass through and through, even in a tough borough where punches flew before a smartass could make his first wisecrack. The other boys were quiet and worried, and Spot took it upon himself to make the first remark.

Interrupting the judge, and capturing the attention of the entire courtroom, he announced, "Hey, yer honor, I object!"

The old man sneered, barely hiding his disdain for the assembled street rats in front of him. "On what grounds?"

Spot pretended to think about it for a moment. Then, sounding quiet serious, he answered: "On the grounds of Brooklyn, yer honor."

But Judge Monahan, you see, he didn't have that great of a sense of humor. He looked down on Spot and shook his head and sentenced each of the boys to a two week's stay in the Refuge unless they had five dollars to cough up for their role in the riot. The clamor that came after the judge's sentence made Spot think that maybe he was the only one who didn't mind going back to the Refuge if he had to. Brooklyn would still be waiting for him when he got out, and it was nice to be able to lie down without wondering who might try to soak him in his sleep. When you were in charge of Brooklyn, those were the sort of things you had to worry about.

Because Spot was right there with Race: He didn't have five dollars. He didn't have five cents, either. Honest, he would've gone on and slugged ol' Move-Along himself for a bright penny just then. But at least the Refuge was a roof over his head and three squares a day. Until the strike was over and he could go back to selling papes again, staying in jail was probably the best thing he could do.

And then Davey's reporter friend, the mook with the bowtie, he stood up and offered to pay all of the bails and Spot thought: Oh, well. It was nice while it lasted.

Then they brought Jack out and Warden Snyder went out and told the whole courtroom all about Jack—er, Francis—about his dead mother and jailbird father, and Spot couldn't believe why half the boys had the nerve to look surprised. His story wasn't so bad as some of them go, and it wasn't like they could believe Jacky-Boy ain't never lied to them before.

All Spot got out of Jack's sentencing was that it didn't pay to be head of a strike when the warden of the Refuge was already gunning for you, and that it seemed Jack wasn't going to be needing his bunk at the lodging house that night, what with him being dumped in the Refuge for, oh, the next four years or so.

Maybe he could borrow it, Spot thought. At least until he earned a couple of dimes back from Race, that was.

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**End Note**: I know I missed the deadline for the challenge, but the prompt just wouldn't leave me alone. So, there it was - my take on how Spot ended up in jail with the boys. Because, honestly, didn't you ever wonder why it was only the Manhattan boys - and Spot - of all the boys at the rally who ended up getting caught? And, yes, I'm still procrastinating with my NaNo, I guess, but that's coming along alright (10,000 words done so far, yay!). At least I'm procrastinating and still writing, though!

-_ stress, 11.04.10_


End file.
